


For Those Who Wait

by surveycorpsjean



Category: Dream Daddy: A Dad Dating Simulator
Genre: Fluff, Getting Together, I wrote vague so u can insert ur oc, M/M, Mild Smut, Post Robert Ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-26
Updated: 2017-07-26
Packaged: 2018-12-07 09:02:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11620317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/surveycorpsjean/pseuds/surveycorpsjean
Summary: It’s been three months, specifically, since Robert asked me to be just a friend, and I wholeheartedly agreed to be whatever he needed.He’s working on himself. Drinking less, smoking less, beingangryless, and sometimes he calls me with too much emotion in his throat, tongue slurred and eyes red rimmed and god, I just want to take it all away.





	For Those Who Wait

**Author's Note:**

> aaaaaa i love robert,,,,

Waiting is the worst part.

Not that it’s anything new.  Funny enough, it feels like you wait even more these days. Life goes faster and technology gets faster and cars go faster, but it still feels like you wait  _forever_ for that dumb wheel to stop spinning on google chrome, and somehow traffic manages to feel even worse than the day before.

Even so, I’d like to think that I’m relatively patient. Maybe I don’t wait the full three minutes and thirty seconds for my breakfast burrito to fully microwave, but it’s still  _my_ decision to eat that half frozen cheese brick, thank you. At least I’m not some mom with a pixie cut and a triple digit purse that can’t wait an extra fifteen minutes for her gluten free mimosa salad. So yeah. I’m essentially Jesus.

But uh, anyways. Waiting. It sucks. It never felt so bad, when Amanda was here. A lot of things were easier, then.

She’d crack jokes during commercials, and turn up the radio and sing off pitch during red lights.

And when I’d sit, curled up in the corner of our recliner, and stare at the small engravings of the folding knife in my hand, Amanda would come sit next to me, and talk until the pit in my stomach ebbed away.

It’s harder now. The house seems quieter, and I keep her door shut because I get sad when I don’t see her in there.

But she calls me (nearly) every day, and Mat drags me out to his café on Tuesdays, and Damien invites me over after work on Thursdays, and, unfortunately, Craig is  _determined_ to get me into some kind of workout regimen,  _“It’s a good distraction bro!”_ (and he’s right, god dammit) so, the weeks aren’t boring, at least.

It’s almost like the entire cult-de-sac is pulling together, because they know of my borderline pathetic social reliance on my eighteen-year-old daughter. I can appreciate the effort.

Still.

It’s hard not to look out the window, and stare at the house next to mine.

Robert.

Robert is a  _really_ good friend.

He comes over, sometimes, when he gets home from wherever the hell he goes. He blows up my phone at night, and I jump in his old beater truck and we drive anywhere. His truck always smells like  _him –_ leather and alcohol and old cologne, and it’s so- it’s so  _fucking_ good-

It’s been months since I kissed him under our cherry tree. Three months, specifically, since Robert decided he needed me to be a friend, and I wholeheartedly agreed to be whatever he needed.

He’s working on himself. Drinking less, smoking less, being  _angry_ less, and sometimes he calls me with too much emotion in his throat, tongue slurred and eyes red rimmed and god, I just want to take it all away.

It’d almost be easier, if it wasn’t mutual. Butterflies are just as nauseating as I remember them being at thirteen, and it’s worse knowing he feels the same way.

_Damn,_ I just want to kiss him. To rub my hands against the stubble of his cheek and crawl in his lap and just  _ugh –_ hold him forever. To tell him that he’s so, so special to me, because fuck, he is.

But he said he needs time. And that’s okay. I can wait.

 

* * *

 

“I’m leaving.”

I look up from the wood block in my hands. It’s supposed to be a duck, (a mighty duck) but it looks more like an abstract lamppost with a tiny hat. I don’t think I’ll get any better at wicking, but Robert seems to believe I will.

I blink, “What?”

“Takin’ off.” Robert says, and leans back against the toolbox in his truck bed.

I snort, “Did the fed’s finally find ya’?”

“Yep. It’s been real, D. Burn every memento of me and move on.”

“I’ll remember you as you were,” I smile, and look back to my lamppost.

“Seriously though,” Robert shifts. “I’m leaving for a week. Taking Betsey with me.”

The little boston terrier perks up at the sound of her name. Robert gives her a pat on the head.

“Oh yeah?” I say, trying not to sound disappointed. “Dare I ask where?”

Robert rubs the back of his head, “I have some shit to set straight.”

“I get it,” I smile. “Drive safe, don’t kill anyone, blah blah blah.”

“No promises,” Robert says, with a half-smile. He looks more relaxed than usual. That’s good, I think.

It’s hard to hang out like this – in the back of his truck, parked on a hill. Knowing we’re not nothing, but not – you know,  _something._ I wanna’ hold his damn hand.

He’s not looking at me. The silence stretches on, and I don’t bother breaking it. I want to ask where he’s going, but I have a feeling if he wanted me to know, he’d tell me.

I’m surprised when Robert turns my way.

“Will you be okay?”

I sputter, “Me?”

Robert stares.

“I’m actually quite independent, I’ll have you know,” I say. “I made an  _entire_ batch of cookies yesterday and managed to not eat all two dozen in one sitting.”

“That’s not what I mean,” Robert crosses his arms. He’s not wearing his jacket, which is totally not fair, ‘cause I can see his t-shirt stretch around his arms. Does he even lift? 

“Yeah. I’ll stay busy,” I say. “I think I should be asking  _you_ that.”

Robert cracks another smile, “If I was a sap, this is where I’d say that I’ll miss you.”

“Good thing I’m no sap either,” I grin. “Or I’d say I’d miss you too.”

Robert slings an arm over my shoulder with a laugh – and god,  _fuck_ him. Fuck him, because my heart hurts, and we’re still nothing and something and it’s  _weird._  

I leave my lamppost duck for another day. He lets me lean against his shoulder, and I’m glad he doesn’t say the unsaid  _you’re a good friend,_ because I think that’d just about break me.

 

* * *

 

It’s taco night for the softball team. It’s hard to tell Craig no, so I end up here, eating the Biggest Boy Burrito, which fell apart on the first bite, and ended up as a glorified tortilla salad.

I pick at it with my fork, and don’t pay too much attention to the screaming preteens running around the restaurant. Still, I keep an eye on Hazel and Briar, who are trying their damnedest to win a stuffed dragon from the claw machine.

“Hey D,” Craig says, in a voice, waving around River’s arms from across the booth. “What do you call a cow with no legs?”

“I don’t know River,” I smile. “What  _do_ you call a cow with no legs?”  

“Ground beef.”

I look up from River, to Craig, and lift an eyebrow.

“Wow. Funny.”

“I don’t even know you anymore,” Craig pouts, setting River back down in his lap. “My  _real_ bro would’ve laughed.”

“Ha-ha.”

“Look,” Craig says, “I know you’re full of crippling social anxiety-“

“ _Hey!-“_

“-but you should talk to some of the moms here. Believe it or not, there’s some really nice ones.”

“As fun as that sounds,” I look over to another booth, “I think I’m the last person they want to talk to.”

I can physically feel the laser eyes from the softball Mom’s across the restaurant. Craig seems totally indifferent to their thirst.

“What’s got you so pouty then, dude?” Craig frowns. “Amanda would be disappointed in you.”

I point, and joke, “Don’t you bring Amanda into this.”

“Furreal though! Is this about Robert?”

“Shh!”

“Oh stop, it’s not like he can hear us.”

“Well, maybe it is,” I fold my arms, and pout.

Craig frowns. He wraps his arms around little baby River and says, “Have you tried talking to him?”

“He left for god-knows where.”

“Yeah, but I mean,” Craig shrugs, “You’re sad, aren’t you?”

“I’m  _pining,”_ I wheeze, before gracefully slapping my head in my hands. “Boy do I love being fifteen again.”

“Kay, no offense, but you guys are literally perfect for each other.”

“…Why would I take offen-“

“And like, I know he said he wanted to just be friends but, I don’t see the big deal with also dating? Like, shouldn’t you  _also_ be best friends with your partner?”

“That’s…” I start, “…kind of a good point.” I shake my head, “But no. It  _has_ to be on his terms. I can wait.”

Craig laughs, “It’s like taming an animal.”

I laugh too, “It kind of is.”

“Well, you should still come to the gym with me this weekend,” Craig pushes. “You can’t skip leg day.”

“Ughhhhhh I did leg day last month.”

“You’re going to have ripped arms and spindly-ass legs, dude. You’re gonna’ look like Popeye.”

“Oh f-“ I cut myself off in the presence of children. “Oh freak. You’re right.”

Craig fingerguns, “Just looking out for you, man.”

“Dad! Dad! Dad!” Hazel and Briar come running, a stuffed dragon in hand. “Look!”

“Woah!” Craig gasps, “Did you win it?”

“Uhhh-“

Craig’s smile drops. He looks over to the claw machine, where there’s a broken door hanging of the hinges. He sighs, and turns to me, “I have to go talk to management. Be right back.”

I wave him off with a smile, “Take your time.”

“Briar. Hazel.” He stands up, using his Dad voice, “Come with me.”

“But! But-“

I finish the rest of my burrito slush, and try not to check my phone too often.

 

* * *

 

I hear nothing from Robert all week.

That’s fine. It’s not like I’m attached to the sound of his voice or anything. Pfft.

Someone must’ve told Damien that I’ve been mopey, because he brings a cat from the shelter, and my day gets better by like, at least 500%. Amanda calls that afternoon, so, add another 500% on top of that.

She’s having fun, I hear. She made friends with this girl in her Art History class – another damn Emma – but Amanda really likes her, so, I like her.

Craig’s kids are with Smashley this week; so when I skimp out on that 6AM workout, Craig nearly kicks down my door at ten at night, telling me it’s  _leg day bro, lets go lets go-_

I’d like to think I’m getting a little better. We jog to the gym together, and I somehow manage to not eat shit on the treadmill. I still don’t know the names of half the equipment; to me it’s just, the pushy thing, the pully thing, the thigh squishy thing and the arm snappy whatsit.

Craig is fun to work out with. He talks about his kids and I talk about mine, and it doesn’t even feel like midnight when we’re walking home.

“Ugh, I feel gross,” I pick at my shirt. It’s sticky, and the sun might be down, but it’s still warm outside.

“Take it off,” Craig hollers.

“Nice try,” I tease. My legs feel like jelly, and I almost die falling off the curb, but I play it off on purpose. “This hot dad bod is for private viewings only.”

“We skinnydipped in Joe’s pool during senior year. I know you have three moles on your butt that make a triangle.”

I gasp, and slap a hand over my left ass cheek. “Is that why you called me illuminati butt?”

“You didn’t know?!”

“I don’t look at my own ass!”

Craig laughs, and I laugh too. I can see the cult-de-sac coming into view. Craig’s house is first, so I slow down my walk when we pass Mat’s car.

“Thanks for coming, dude,” Craig grins. “I’m proud of you.”

“Well…th…” I gag a little, “..thanks for…making me go.”

Craig barks a laugh and pulls me into a hug.

“Ew, ew, ew, gross and sticky gross and sticky,” I squirm, my voice totally manly.

Craig hugs harder, and goddamn, he’s strong. I try not to squeal and wake up half the neighborhood.

“You-smell-so bad-“

“Hahaha so do you!”

There’s a short honk.

Craig and I jolt apart.

My head whips over – and oh. Oh! Robert is here, parked in front of my house, leaning against the driver side door. He’s staring.

“Look who’s back,” Craig grins, and swats my ass.

 I swat him back, and huff, “Go snort kale, or something.”

Craig smiles, “G’nite bud.”

“See you,” I wave, and walk over towards my house. Robert is still staring. He looks kinda’ scary. Wow, I can’t remember the last time I thought Robert looked  _actually_ scary.

He’s in his leather jacket, arms crossed, jeans ripped and worn to hell. However, he still looks…clean. He’s shaven today. I can’t help but feel excited; my jelly legs gain a little bit of strength, and I resist the urge to skip his way. Scary demeanor or not, he still looks sexy. Like a whole damn meal. And I really missed him.

“Hiya,” I sway, with a smile. “I see you made it back okay.”

“Yeah,” Robert grunts. “You didn’t answer me.”

I blink. I pat for my phone, and find it in my left pocket. Oh, I guess he did text me. Like, a lot.

“Wow,” I laugh. “This is kind of ironic, isn’t it? Now I know how Amanda feels.”

Robert stares.

“Uhh.” I blink, “Are you okay? I’d um, hug you or something, but I’m kinda disgusting right now.”

“I didn’t know you went to the gym with Craig.”

“Oh, it’s a recent development,” I say, still picking at my soaked shirt. “He thinks I’ll be happier if I leave the house, or something. All I know is my legs feel like toothpicks compared to his. I think Craig’s thighs could pop my head like a grape.”

Robert looks unimpressed.

 “Uh, well,” I feel nervous. “I missed you. If you let me shower real fast, we can, I dunno’, go out or something.”

“It’s late,” Robert finally says, throwing open the door to his truck. “I’ll just see you tomorrow-“

“When has that ever stopped you?” I snap, a little sterner than I was intending. It stops Robert in his tracks anyways. I clear my throat, and try not to feel hot under his gaze. “You should come in. Uh. My house. Come in my house.”

Robert shuts the door. He’s looking at me.  _Really_ looking at me. We're still on the street. It’s quiet, all the neighbors gone to sleep.

He steps forwards, and I resist the urge to step back.

He hovers into my space, eyes jumping across my face, down my neck, to the overstretched shirt that hangs off my shoulders. I feel hot.

He grips it hard, and yanks. I yelp as I’m thrown forwards. I feel his nose press into the side of my neck, and his hand twists in my shirt. I suck in a hard breath, just as he does.

Robert starts to say, “Don’t-“ but he freezes.

He lets go, steps away, and turns back towards his truck. I sway, dizzy.

“I’ll see you tomorrow.”

The effect might not be as grand; for all Robert has to do is pull his truck into the driveway next door. But I’m still left speechless, feet glued to the pavement, as Robert throws his front door shut, and locks it.

 

* * *

 

I’m not surprised when I don’t actually see him tomorrow.

I figure it’s best not to push, even if I really, really want to. Last night made no sense, and he’s acting  _weird –_ like he did before we ever knew the other. I just want to talk – but if Robert doesn’t want to, it’s a lost cause.

Still, it hurts a little bit, when I reach for the mail and see Mary getting in Robert’s truck.

Am I that unapproachable?

I try not to think about it. Mary is his best friend anyways. It’s fine.

 

* * *

 

It’s not fine. I’m sad and I miss him.

Granted, it’s been maybe two days since Robert got back, however, it’s  _lonely._ I miss Robert dragging me to drive-in’s across town, sitting in the back of his truck watching old black and white’s. I crave that adventurous, witty side of Robert that I haven't seen for a while.

“Amanda,” I say, legs over the arm of the recliner. “I’m dying.”

_“Gee,”_ she chirps,  _“What’s the verdict, doctor?”_

“Sad. I’m going to die of sad.”

_“Oh- is everything alright?”_

“Yeah, yeah,” I pout. “Robert’s ignoring me though, and I don’t even know what I did.”

_“That’s a surprise.”_

“Is that sarcasm?”

_“Yes? No? Did you text him?”_

“No? I’m not going to bother someone with no interest in talking to me.”

_“No offense Dad, but shut up. Robert adores you.”_

I sputter, “Amanda!”

_“I’m just saying! He’s really good for you, and you’re really good for him, and I don’t understand why you both have to make this so difficult. Like, you’re both old. You should be over this highschool stuff.”_

Well. I don’t really have anything to say to that.

Still, I manage a small, “I’m not  _that_ old…”

“ _Do I need to call Val? We’re friends now, you know.”_

“Please don’t do that. I don’t need this to be anymore complicated than it is.” I put my head in my hands, “Oh my god. I have to ask my eighteen-year-old for relationship advice. Who am I?”

_“A flying spaghetti monster with bad sleeping habits?”_

I shift the phone to my other ear with a laugh, “You know me better than I know myself, kiddo.”

_“Well. I hope you guys talk soon. I want you two to get married so Val can be my sister.”_

I choke on my own spit, and Amanda’s laugh rings through the phone.

 

* * *

 

 Robert texts me the next night.

>  _hey_

_> u up?_

_> I see your porch lights on_

_> don't lie_

_> are you busy tomorrow?_

 

My chest feels a size too small. I exhale, and text back.

_I’m free <_

My phone dings quickly.

_> come over at 11_

_> ? ? ?_

 

* * *

 

I ring his doorbell with my elbow.

I don’t know why I chose to bring a store bought pie, but I did. I know it’s a disgrace to all piekind, but I got it on sale two for ten last week, so, shut up. It's a good steal.

Robert swings open the door, standing there in all his rugged beauty. He didn’t shave this morning, but the tank top/ sweatpants look is something I didn’t expect to like so much. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him outside the same pair of shredded, stone washed jeans.

“Hey,” he nods.

“Uh,” I blank. I lift up the box in my arms, “Pie?”

The look in Robert’s eye changes quickly. Something soft and fond. It's gone before I can stare, but his upperlip twitches and he steps aside. “I see that.”

I kick off my shoes at the front door, and stand awkwardly in the doorway. I wait for the pitter patter of nails, but it doesn’t come.

“Betsey is at the groomers,” Robert says, rolling his shoulder like he slept on it wrong. “She found a beautiful mud puddle to jump in this morning. I had to call Petsmart at nine a.m.”

“I’m impressed you were up that early,” I say, setting the pie down on his kitchen counter.

“Couldn’t sleep,” Robert says quickly. “Wanna’ sit?”

“Sure,” I swallow.

“Don’t be nervous,” Robert says.

“I’m not,” I huff, because I am.

I sit stiffly on his couch. He slouches back in the loveseat across from me, and rubs at the creases of his forehead.

I know he hates smalltalk, but I still mumble, “So…”

“Sorry for ignoring you,” Robert says, outright.

“Yeah…that was…douchey.”

“I’ve been – I’ve been trying to get my life together, you know? It’s-“

“I know,” I say, “But I thought we were friends. I thought you could talk to me.”

Robert hesitates for a moment. He swirls the words in his mouth before he says them, “You’re important to me.”

“You say that,” I exhale. “But then you push me away and stomp into your house.”

Robert flinches. I think it’s the first time I’ve seen him do so.

He sighs. Runs a hand through his salt and pepper hair, and it’s more attractive than it should be.

“I visited my parents. Drove up there with Betsey, and met Val upstate.”

“Oh,” I blink.

“Yeah,” he sighs. “Trying to,” he gestures vaguely, “make amends, or whatever.”

“…Did you?”

“I don’t know,” Robert grits. “I think shit went south when Pappy threw a plate against the wall.”

I gape, “Jesus. Seriously?"

“Not really,” Robert almost smiles, “but he nearly bit my head off when I suggested putting him in a retirement home.”

I slink back into the couch, “I’m sure that went well.”

“It’s hard to suggest anything, when your word ain’t worth shit,” Robert reaches for a cigarette pack sitting on his coffee table. His hand hesitates after reaching halfway, before he pulls back. I appreciate that.

“It’s a start,” I say, with a smile. “Babysteps, and the sort.”

“Yeah.”

I shift, locking my hands between my knees. “But that doesn’t explain my three day exile. I was worried you hated me again.”

Robert’s face contorts into scorn, “Again? What? Of course not. You know I’m-“

“-trying to be better I  _know._  But like,” I sigh. “I like you. A lot. And, and-“ I stop, to regain my train of thought. “I don’t know if I should move on or not, you know? I don’t – I don’t want you to think I’m only being friends with you because I think you’re amazing and sexy. But you're also amazing and sexy and you make my heart hurt."

A rainbow of emotions cross Robert's face, but he seems to settle on defeat. There’s a silence that stretches. I regret opening my mouth. I can hear his ceiling fan, and the rattling of the icemaker from the kitchen. I start to say something else, but Robert starts to talk.

“I keep thinking that you deserve better than me," He sighs. "That if I clean up my act – get in a better place – then I can  _really_ take care of you, you know? But every day I just feel farther away than when I started.”

I stare, speechless. I can feel my heartrate skyrocket in my chest. I have flashbacks to the day he cried in my arms, so long ago.

Robert rubs at his eyes, hands antsy for that pack of cigarettes.

“I fucking hate the idea of you moving on, and I fucking hate that I feel jealous seeing you with goddamn  _Craig_ of all people, and I  _fucking_ hate that I don’t think I’ll ever be right enough.”

I have a lot of things to say, but my mouth decides to bark, “Are you serious?”

Robert stares. I jerk in my seat, sitting up straight, “Robert-“

“You-“

“No! No, hold on,” I huff. “What kind of pedestal do you hold me on? If you want to change, then you should change for  _you,_ not for me.” I give a short laugh, “I’m just some dad with a desk job and a kid in college.”

Robert opens his mouth to say something, but I cut him off again.

“I want to be there for you,” I say. “And I also wanna’ kiss your face. And this is just all so confusing, but I think that’s both our fault.”

Robert rubs the side of his face, and eventually smiles. It's cute.

“I don’t want to fuck this up.”

I shrug, "Me neither.”

“God, I’m in fucking  _love_ with you,” Robert says, distressed, and my whole world explodes. “I’m so bad at this.”

“Please come here,” I say, voice maybe cracking. “Please? Please.”

He kicks up out of the chair. When he’s close enough, I grab his wrist and pull him in for a hug. He falls so easily, knee bracing in the couch cushion. I hug him and don't let go.

Robert breathes in. So do I.

He muffles into my hair, “Aren’t you worried?”

“According to my daughter, we’re  _too old for highschool drama,”_ I snort.

Robert laughs, “What does that make you?”

“Prom king, obviously.”

“Go out with me then,” Robert says. “I don’t kiss and tell.”

I grip a handful of his hair and pull, so I can look at him. I adjust my grip to brace my hands against his cheeks and kiss him.

“What if I want you to tell?”

Robert giggles, something along the lines of  _that was so lame –_ but he kisses me, all pressure and tongue and it’s so mind-numbing, that the world drops beneath my feet.

 

* * *

 

I like when we go out to drink. It’s not how it used to be – downing ridiculous amounts of whiskey, and forgetting about it the next day.

It’s better. Sitting on the same side of a booth, and sipping drinks, chewing on ice, watching The Game and rooting for different teams. If I lose, I buy, and vice versa.

Nothing has changed. But  _a lot_ has changed. Robert is my best friend, probably. I’m not sure who else could ramble about cryptids for hours, and  _still_ be endearingly cute.

We don’t see each other every day, and that’s fine, because now I can call him my boyfriend. Sometimes he’ll hold my hand when he drives, the other braced on the wheel of his truck, and it’s so, so hot, that my ears turn red, and the truck feels stuffy. That's my  _boyfriend_.

Things don’t get magically better. Robert still carries regret on his back like a second skin, but I think he’s getting there. One day.

Val calls me. It’s mostly to ask how Robert’s doing- without hearing the direct and gruff  _fine_ from the man himself.

I tell her the truth. She appreciates that.

_“I forgave him a long time ago,”_ she says.  _“I think he just has to forgive himself._ ”

I don’t mind when Robert has his moods. When he wont text back, and has bad days. Because, lets be honest, I have a list of faults myself.

But I like those parts of him. The rough edges and worn, rugged leather. It’s why I adore him so much.

 

* * *

 

Ben-Hur has been playing on Robert’s flatscreen for the past hour. I zone in and out, sometimes following Charles Heston in his sweaty glory, and sometimes focusing on Robert’s face instead.

“This is pretty religious,” I say, partway through. “I didn’t think you watched this stuff.”

“It’s called a classic, D.” Robert says, lifting his drink to his lips. “Religious or not. You appreciate good acting when you see it.”

It’s not the best I’ve seen, but I won’t say that out loud.

“Wasn’t there a remake of this?”

“We don’t talk about that,” Robert grunts. “Not in this house.”

I laugh, and bonk my head against his shoulder. I don’t have any commitments tomorrow, so I pay no attention when the clock crosses midnight.

Robert has my hand in his. I busy myself with tracing the scars there. Long and short, some rugged and jagged, others smooth, like his folding knife.

He’s not wearing his signature jacket, but he still smells like leather. I’d like to think it’s just embedded into him, like some kind of lizard skin. I can smell the faint alcohol on his breath, but it’s not unpleasant.

The blinds are pulled on the windows, the only source of light coming from the fuzzy T.V.

I think Robert knows I’m not watching, but he talks about the actors anyways. I still trace his palm, playing with the calloused pads of his fingertips. I spread my fingers, and his hand dwarfs mine. Amanda always said I have stubby fingers, but I guess she wasn’t lying.

Robert’s hand squeezes like a trap, holding my hand captive, and bringing it to his lips to lightly bite into the side of my thumb.

“You’re not even paying attention. Some kind of date this is.”

I laugh, and try to wring my hand free.

“I’m totally listening. Go on about the symbolism of Easter, or whatever.”

_“Esther-_ god, you’re so uncultured.”

I laugh more, only because Robert’s smile is to die for.

 

* * *

 

“Ya’ll are disgusting,” Mary says.

Robert takes a swig of his drink, and slings his free arm over my shoulder. “Tell me something I don’t know.”

“No, seriously,” Mary deadpans. “Watching you two makes me nauseous.”

“That’s because your body physically rejects any semblance of a healthy relationship,” I say, and then immediately regret.

But Mary and Robert howl with laughter, the latter squeezing my shoulder as he sets down his drink.

“I’ll drink to that,” Mary says, and taps the bottom of her shot down against the table before slamming it back. “Did you two see that redhead twink that walked in ten minutes ago?”

“Jesus, Mary. He’s a Cheeto fingered kid.”

“At least twenty-one,” Mary stands. “The young ones are naive.”

“Gonna’ go for a free drink?” I ask.

“Drinks, preferably,” Mary holds up a hand. “Catch you snots later.”

Robert nods a goodbye, and swirls the ice around in his whiskey.

“Bye,” I wave, and watch her saunter across the bar.

“She called me a pussy this morning because I refused to do shots of tequila at ten a.m.” Robert says.

“Her liver must hate her.”

“I’m beginning to think she’s immortal.”

I snort, “Maybe Mary is the Dover ghost.”

Robert begins to laugh, but then he stops short. His lips pull into a firm line, and his eyebrows furrow.

“You know…I’ve never seen Mary and the Dover ghost in the same room.”

The alcohol makes me feel warm – and I laugh a little too loud, head falling back against his arm, hand slapping at the table. Neil eyes us from the bar, and I wave a half-assed apology through my tears.

Robert squeezes me, before drawing his arm back.

“Do you wanna’ take off?”

“Can you drive?” I eye him.

“It takes way more than a single glass to get me tipsy,” Robert pulls out some cash, and places it under his glass. “Do you even know me?”

“Right, right,” I hum.

He takes my hand, and leads me out of the bar. We pass Mary, who’s sucking the youth out of some kid – she winks at me, and I’m not quite sure how to respond to that, so I let Robert pull me out of the bar, and towards his truck.

It takes a moment to realize where we’re going. It’s that long, winding path, up towards the lookout. It’s become a _hangout spot,_ in some way or another. There’s nobody ever there – probably out of fear for whatever lives in the woods – but I’d like to think that between the two of us, we have enough knives to give a cryptid a run for their money.

I like watching Robert drive. It’s usually one handed; his eyes stay on the road, but he drives with the relaxed confidence of someone who’s been driving since childhood.

I startle when a hand comes down to rest along my thigh. I look to him – and he gives my leg a squeeze, before gripping the wheel, and turning off road.

“You alive?”

“No,” I say. “I’m actually a figment of your imagination.”

“Well, don’t go falling asleep on me,” Robert snorts. “You’re staring.”

“I like watching you drive,” I say. “It’s like, kinda’ sexy.”

“Do you find all mundane things attractive?” Robert smiles. They slow down as they drive down the short dirt road.

“Oh yeah,” I joke. “The way you hold a pencil? Hot.”

Robert gives a short laugh, and throws the truck into park. I pop off my seatbelt, and open the door to turn and stand off the step. I’ve seen the view countless times, but the city lights are still a sight to behold.

I don’t notice Robert getting out the futon, until he’s calling me over. He’d parked with the truck bed towards the railing, so he lays out blankets across the squishy futon, and takes a block of wood out of his Mary poppin’s pockets.

I hoist myself up into the truck bed. Totally graceful, mind you.

Robert laughs at me when I nearly slip, and I stick out my tongue, wiggling to sit up against back window like he is.

He offers me a knife, but I grin, and pull out the one he once gave me.

Robert blinks, “I didn’t know you still had that.”

“I still have your bandana, too,” I say.

For a slight second, I think he might’ve blushed. The look is gone too soon; Robert turns back to whatever he’s carving, and hums once.

I’ve decided that I’m really no good at wicking. So I find a random twig that’s fallen into his truck bed, and decide to sharpen it into a weapon of mass destruction.

It’s almost summer, so the frogs and the crickets sing from the trees around us. I can still hear the traffic down below, and it’s like standing on the bridge between two worlds.

I’m not sure how long we sit there, not saying anything. I steal a look at him, every so often – but eventually grow more interested in this spear I’m making – and I don’t see him reach for my hips, pulling me into his lap. I let out a dignified noise, and I nearly drop my tiny spear.

 He adjusts me so I’m between his legs, back against his chest. He props his chin on my shoulder, “Whatcha’ making?”

I hold up my new sword, “A weapon to surpass Metal Gear.”

Robert raises an eyebrow, and I scoff, “I played a video game _once.”_

“Video games are tasteless.”

“ _You’re_ tasteless.”

“Are you drunk?”

“That is entirely your fault,” I say, and go back to my spear. Robert doesn’t deny it.

He wraps his arms around my waist, and continues his sculpture from over my shoulder. I’m concerned with him turning that knife so close to my stomach – so I push my spear aside, and lean fully back against his chest, so I can watch him turn the block in his hands, carving out each piece with precision.

Robert is warm. And he smells good. I don’t know what cologne he uses, but it smells like that Yankee Man candle that Amanda once brought home as a joke. (I took it and hid it in my bathroom, because I thought it smelled so damn good. Not that I’d let Amanda ever know that.)

His scruff rubs against my cheek when he shifts. I involuntarily shiver, a hand coming down to brace against his knee. I get lost in the small motions of his hands – the sound of a knife scraping against wood is surprisingly soothing. I play with the hole in his jeans, right above his knee, picking at the stray threads.

I kinda’ hope I remember this forever. Whether life works out or not. I want to remember this.

Robert folds the knife, and sets it safely aside. I stare- but a hand comes up to my jaw, and tilts my head just enough so he can kiss me. It’s sweet and soft – almost like a question – until I kiss back as an answer. I hum, and shift to lessen the strain on my neck; but Robert keeps me where I am, a hand locking on my thigh, the other braced against my neck.

I always drown in his kisses. I feel young again, clambering to keep up with open mouthed kisses and the bitter taste of alcohol. His tongue is so hot and slick against mine, an involuntary moan grinds from my throat before I can stop it. 

We break for a moment.

“Your breath is horrible.”

“Suck it up, buttercup.”

I laugh, and reach a hand around to pull into his hair. The angle is odd, but there’s something hot about it. His lips are chapped, but slick from my tongue.

The hand on my thigh squeezes, his thumb digging into my skin through my jeans;  I inhale against his lips, shivering again when that hand moves towards my inner hipbone, and to the bottom of my shirt.

“Wait, Robert,” I exhale, “Someone could see us.”

Robert snorts, and his hand is warm against my stomach, “Who? Mothman?”

I groan, “Don’t bring that up right now.”

“No one’s gonna’ fuckin’ see us,” Robert says, against my cheek. His hand sweeps up my chest, my shirt pooling with it. His callouses scratch against my skin; I'm hyperaware of everywhere we’re touching. Robert tips my head again, to tug on my lower lip and grin, “I thought you still had some adventure left in ya’.”

I swallow, tipping the short distance to kiss him again.

We’ve never done more than make out on his couch. I should’ve known - Robert won’t settle for a boring first in my grey-walled bedroom.

 His hand sweeps around my side, and down between my legs, fingers crossing denim, and I short circuit, nails digging hard into his knee. He grinds down the palm of his hand and sticks his tongue past teeth and it’s made painfully clear to me that I haven’t been laid in a long long, long, _long_ time-

I push my hips into his palm, and tighten my grip on his jaw. Robert groans shortly, and it makes all my hair stand on end.

“I’m glad we took this slow,” I joke when the kiss breaks, but I'm fully serious.

Robert says, low, “I didn’t want to rush this. Like everything else in my life.”

The air turns a little serious. My chest tightens.

His scruff rubs against my cheek and his fingers play with the button on my jeans.

“I wanted to savor you.”

“I feel like four months is a good grace period,” I say, kinda’ breathless. Am I nervous? I think I’m nervous.

I turn my head to watch him work down my jeans with one hand. I start to help him, when teeth chew at the lower spot on my neck, and I melt in his arms like a teenage girl.

I kick off my jeans, and he turns me around in his lap, my thighs straddling his. I can finally see his face, pupils dilated, hair messy from my hands. I brace my hands against his cheeks and kiss him because I can. Because doing anything otherwise is a waste of time.

I’m too worked up to take note of everything that’s going on. All I can feel is lips and hands and suddenly fingers are pushing at elastic, and I shake in his arms, mouth falling open with a soundless moan.

He’s talking, saying something, but blood rushes past my ears and I scramble for his belt, and time passes, up on that mountain. It’s dumb. It’s silly and childish, grinding against the other like we’re twenty, hot and sticky and shaking. Robert nips down my throat with no regard for the way it bruises, and I’m pretty sure my nails do a number on his arm, but it only spews him on harder –

I don’t forget this. Not ever.

 

* * *

 

This sounds Pinterest as hell, but I think good things really do come to those who wait.

Well, so far, anyways.

It feels like a million trillion bubillion years until Amanda comes home for break; but Robert waits with me that day, distracting me with movie trivia and the cooking channel – until there’s a knock on the door, and I’m throwing it open with the force of a thousand suns.

Arms link around my neck and I laugh, picking Amanda up and spinning her in the doorway.

“You’re home!”

“I’m home!”

“You’re home!”

“I’m home!”

I set her down, my face burning with a smile, “I missed you, kid.”

“I missed you too dad,” She smiles. She cut her hair. It looks good. She leans around me to wave, “Hi Robert!”

“Hey Manda,” he waves.

“How’s Val doing?”

I feel my heart stop a little. I look from Robert, to Amanda, and back to Robert.

But Robert smiles, “Good. She talks about you a lot. Something about an internship.”

“Yes!” Amanda cheers. “I was worried she wasn’t serious about that.”

“Val is always serious.” Robert deadpans, and I laugh.

“Well, you’re just in time,” I pat Amanda on the shoulder, offering to take her bag. “Joseph is throwing a Barbeque tomorrow.”

“Oh thank god,” Amanda sighs. “If I eat top ramen one more time, I’m going to carve out my stomach with a spoon.”

“Gruesome,” Robert says. “I like that.”

Amanda smiles at me, and I feel lighter. Weightless on my feet.

“Go unpack, kiddo.”

Amanda disappears up the stairs. I cross my arms, and smile.

Robert materializes behind me; I don’t jump – I’m getting used to the way he pops up out of nowhere – but I do turn in his arms, and hook my thumbs in his beltloops.

“You two are cute,” Robert says.

“You’re cute,” I reply.

Robert makes a disgusted face, and I laugh.

_“Dad!”_  Amanda calls. _“Can we go see Brian’s dog? Wait, actually – can we go to the park? I need to refill my doggage meter.”_

Robert tugs at my collar, hiding a bruise that he put there. I pat him on the hip and turn, calling, “Sure, sweetheart.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> sorry if theres any mistakes, i made this rll fast lol
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> [tumblr](http://zanimez.tumblr.com/)


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